


Standstill

by WatanabeMaya



Series: On Independence and the Reunification of Italy [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Goodbye Sex, Goodbyes, Independence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatanabeMaya/pseuds/WatanabeMaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The most painful goodbyes are the ones that are never said and never explained." / Spamano oneshot. ((Possible Prequel to "Hope is the Thing with Feathers"))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standstill

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

The room is quiet lest for the clatter of china and clinking of silverware that resonates within closed walls. A pair of forest green sends a glance to the source of the sound, its owner cocking an eyebrow in momentary askance. Clearing his throat to respond, he is the first to break the silence.

"So you want to become independent, Lovi?"

The question hangs in the air, sharp, cold, and biting in its tone.

The boy in question stammers, fists clenching tightly at the hem of his shirt. The clock ticks. The wood creaks. He hears birds chirp in the distance. Dusk is falling, the sky painted in deep auburn as the twilight sinks in and the sun sets once again. He feels his throat constrict and his chest tighten. The boy doesn't respond right away - his mind is clouded and ambivalent, brimming with an anxious and fearful uncertainty. Citrine irises fixate themselves on the half-filled plate, blinking away the tears that stung them from behind until finally, he musters a nod in response.

"…Si."

With a calloused hand, Spain raise the glass to his lips, sipping the clear liquid slowly, subsequently emptying it of its contents. Again, he gazes at the younger boy; his expression apathetic. "I see."

Their meal continues, and the minutes pass slowly.

He pushes the plate aside. The chair squeaks slightly as he rises from his seat. A soft pat on the back and a ruffle of Romano's hair, he smiles softly at the boy.

"Ne, Roma, let's harvest some tomatoes tomorrow."

The boy manages a nod before he slips away into his room, leaving the elder man alone in his solitude, green eyes reflecting unspoken sadness as he stood underneath the rays of twilight.

-x-

For as long as he could remember, the house had always been quiet. Empty. Languid afternoons spent by the entrance door searching for the returning conquistador. Lonesome evenings spent in vigilance, as he lay awake in the large, desolate, king-sized bed. A pile of paper flowers lay abandoned in a heap in the corner of the room, all of which rolled delicately and carefully by precious, tanned fingers.

Romano listens closely as he hears the seconds, quick and transient, pass him by; braves himself against the stinging behind his eyes, the sleep and fatigue wearing down his eyelids. He strains his ears for the sound of a click, of a door being opened, awaiting the familiar, accented voice that always sung him a lullaby to drive away his nightmares and carry him to sleep. He watches the hands of the clock moving steadily with the ticking beat, anxious and hopeful for his wishes to be granted a moment sooner.

But there is nothing. Nothing but the ticking of the clock that resounds in the room, the hollow ringing in his ears as he strains them in the silence. He lets his mind wander in discernable anticipation.

It's the little things he does that get to him, really. Even a single touch from the Spaniard is enough to send his whole world spinning far beyond his very control, and with just the mere mention of his name gracing the Spaniard's lips, he feels his whole world tip right off of its axis.

He remembers the day when warm hands first cradled his, and melted the barrier of his icy facade. The first time saw kindness in the gaze directed at him. And how, when they sat together side by side on the carriage earlier on in that distant summer day, Romano swore he felt his heart race just a little bit faster.

But then the memories fade as he lies here once again, those dull afternoons and sleepless nights, moments he's spent sitting by the entrance and waiting for his return. Searching and longing for that one familiar face.

There once was a time he waited like this too. And his mind throbs painfully whenever he recalls the memory of that day when his grandfather last bid him goodbye and promised to return.

There were whispers of affection and a light peck on his cheek, followed by another kiss pressed gently onto his brother's forehead.

It was the same when Antonio left him before the war, sans the presence of his younger twin. The words were the same, and the whispers as quiet, but he clearly remembers receiving two kisses this time instead of the former memory of one.

Romano knows better than to fall for those words, yet somehow, coming from Spain, he can't help but be hopeful.

Again, he waits.

But the days are too long and the nights are too cold; and the years pass him by like minutes, as the boy grows up, older with an age that does not yet taint his naïve, persistent nature. The waiting never stops. The praying never stops. But no matter how long it takes, all that remains is the silence and the raw ache of loneliness that lingers in the air and envelops his petite frame.

-x-

It's only after four and a half  _orujos_  and three  _queimadas_ later on,that Spain finds himself staring at the honey-colored liquor in a wistful daze of longing and schmaltz. It reminds him of aureate irises, tinged with a copper hue; those precious gems of amber lighting up with every smile; lips curling upward with every smirk; nervous hands running through his rich caramel brown tresses. Of that little boy whose trivial mannerisms never seemed to escape his mind, now grown up to be a nation out of his reach and his control.

Then it dawns on him, like a flash in his mind. The harsh, painful, bitter truth of his words on that day, and the burden and weight of their meaning.

And it's because he watches, and it's because he loves, that Spain knows that their time is up and he must let him go.

-x-

Moments later, they find themselves in the empire's bedroom. Bodies intertwined in long limbs, figures tangled in the sheets. Hugging as warm arms wrap around one another. Kissing as lips are locked and tongues are searching feverishly for their desperate other. Holding as though every single touch was like a precious memory that could never be forgotten.

Spain is on top of Romano, head hanging low as he closes in on the gap between them and locks the younger nation's gaze onto his own. The door is locked and the room is almost practically bare, adorned with only a king-sized bed, pallid beige curtains, and a box of paper flowers rolled together in a heap.

"You grew to be a very fine nation, Romano, and boss is so  _so_ proud of you."

Then the tables turn between them, positions switching between Spain and his charge; and now Romano is looking down to face him instead of up. And their gazes are unfaltering still.

"Lovino," Spain breathed. Eyes wide open, bodies slick with sweat, the older Spaniard hangs his arms on the younger's neck and pulls the Italian close, whispering to his ears as his hot breath tickles his skin and traces down the younger's neck.

_"Please don't leave me just yet, querido."_

There it is again. His honesty. His sincerity. His kindness. The young nation sees the pain mirrored in those green eyes, hears the aching longing the man carries in his strained voice. The power of his words, though somewhat slurred from the alcohol, enough to shatter the mask of Romano's once strong façade.

And the tears sting his eyes though he swears not to cry, and Romano feels himself falling and almost – just barely – on the brink of giving in.

But he shakes his head at the thought of it all. Romano has seen too much blood, treated too many wounds, and has noticed far too many scars on his caretaker's heated, tanned skin. He's heard far too many  _I forgive you_ 's,  _I'm sorry_ 's, and  _It's not your fault_ 's. He doesn't have to lie anymore. Romano knows that the blood he's shed and he wars he'd fought had always been for him.

It hurts him to think that he'd be so weak as to not be able to protect the former conquistador from this for much longer. And the sight of the bare room and the knowledge of the sold furniture does nothing else but stab his conscience more, for he is knowingly aware that the elder's debts have just piled up more in place of reclaiming ownership of him. And those paper flowers, the pale skin, and the tired – though still loving – eyes were all just adding up to his equation of internal turmoil.

With yet another firm shake of his head, he shoots down his fears with a forceful kiss pressed tightly against chapped, drunken lips.

It's far too late for them to stop now, and they have fallen in far too deep for them to let each other go. So he'll give in to the pleasure and allow himself the sin, if only just for tonight.

Because it's only when they're drunk that he finds enough reason to be able to hold him like this and tell him these things.

_"Grazie, Antonio."_

-x-

It is four in the morning when the southern Italian rises early the next day, when the sky is still dim and the sun lies hidden amongst morning stars and foggy clouds. Long fingers button up his polo shirt, and he runs a comb through his ochre hair. He shuts the curtains and pulls up the covers, facing the man one last time, before planting a faint kiss on the Spaniard's lips and sending a hushed whisper to his ears.

_"Ti amo, Spagna."_

Then the door slams shut and he is gone.

Spain awakes later to a throbbing head and a sore hangover. The muffled sound of birds chirping can be heard faintly from outside the window, patches of sunlight trying to seek refuge within the small corners of his room. His gaze is dull and his arms are vacant, bare and free of the presence of the boy whom he had held the night before.

He strains his ears and waits for a voice to rouse him from his sleep, for painful head butts and childish tackles, for the familiar name-call of him being a  _'tomato bastard'._ Then the tears fall and Spain closes his eyes.

There are no more "good morning" greetings, no grumpy demands for food, no more voices that shout and call out his name; and though this is the end, there are no goodbyes uttered between the pair.

And all that remains are the coldness of the sheets, the wetness of his cheeks, and the silence that embraces the empty room.


End file.
